Movie Review: Robert Pattinson a snore in 'Cosmopolis'

"Cosmopolis" is the type of film where theater owners might have to post warnings on doors stating there’ll be no refunds. By the halfway mark, look for most of the audience to have bolted, wishing they had scheduled a root canal instead.

By Bob Tremblay/DAILY NEWS STAFF

MetroWest Daily News, Framingham, MA

By Bob Tremblay/DAILY NEWS STAFF

Posted Aug. 23, 2012 at 12:01 AM
Updated Aug 23, 2012 at 11:18 PM

By Bob Tremblay/DAILY NEWS STAFF

Posted Aug. 23, 2012 at 12:01 AM
Updated Aug 23, 2012 at 11:18 PM

» Social News

Expect two very different reactions to the film "Cosmopolis." Critics are sure to praise it, calling it a dystopian tour de force, a masterful ode to stream of consciousness, an acerbic commentary on the pitfalls of a capitalistic society.

The general public, on the other hand, is sure to lambaste it, calling it a pretentious, ponderous, self-indulgent, incomprehensible and devastatingly dull testament to twaddle.

I side with the general public on this one.

"Cosmopolis" is the type of film where theater owners might have to post warnings on doors stating there’ll be no refunds. By the halfway mark, look for most of the audience to have bolted, wishing they had scheduled a root canal instead.

Only four types of people will remain: intellectuals who understand it, pseudo-intellectuals who think they understand it, people who believe the film is eventually going to make sense — it doesn’t — and people who have fallen asleep.

How exciting and dramatically charged is this film? The majority of it takes places in a stretch limousine. And the scintillating plot? The protagonist, multibillionaire Eric Packer (Robert Pattinson) wants to get a haircut. But this proves problematic as the president of the United States is in town, jamming Manhattan traffic. Further congestion is created by the funeral procession for a Sufi rap artist. I’ve heard some people call this film comedic. I must have missed the joke.

More traffic woes are caused by irate protesters of the 99 percent demographic who throw rats around. Rats get plenty of play here. The film’s opening quote speaks of rats becoming the unit of currency. Oh, and it seems someone wants to assassinate Packer. After about five minutes, you’re pulling for the assassin.

Virtually everyone in "Cosmopolis" speaks in a monotone as if the something — the corrupting influence of the almighty dollar perhaps — has sucked the life out of them. Pattinson was more lively when he was undead in the "Twilight" movies.

During the ride to the barber, Packer talks to his associates and advisers about money, has sex with his art consultant (Juliette Binoche) while talking about money (he wants to buy the Rothko chapel) and has his prostate examined while talking about money. If you love films that talk about money in all its esoteric glory, this is your movie. In case your curious, Packer’s prostate is asymmetrical.

For action, Packer watches the head of the International Monetary Fund get stabbed in the eye during a TV interview. Packer later is assaulted by the pie assassin (Mathieu Amalric) and meets up with a disgruntled former employee (Paul Giamatti) who wants to kill him. At least these two show some emotion. And they’re insane. Giamatti gets to say my favorite line: "The fungus between my toes speaks to me." Now that’s poetry.

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For fiscal woes, Packer may lose a bundle in the yuan market.

For a little romance — very little — Packer has a few tete-a-tetes with his wealthy wife Elise (Sarah Gadon).

By the way, if you can figure out who any of these people are and what their names are, good luck to you. Packer first confronts Elise while riding in his limo. He sees a woman in a cab, gets out of the limo, gets into the cab and starts talking to her. Small place, New York City.

Scenes that will have you scratching your head involve two shootings. Others characters wax poetic about the best places to urinate if you’re a cabbie.

The actors don’t so much act here as recite. Lengthy abstract monologues abound.

So does any of this have a point? David Cronenberg, who directed and wrote this film — it’s based on a novel by Don DeLillo — clearly has a jaundiced eye locked in on the 1 percenters whose wealth has removed them so far from reality that Never Neverland looks like South Central Los Angeles. Packer’s soundproofed limo spares him from the noise on the street — and the plight of the less fortunate whose protestations, such as setting oneself on fire, are missed as "not original." He’s so young, so wealthy, so brilliant, yet so clueless. An egomaniac, hypochondriac and paranoid master of a warped universe.

Cronenberg the director somehow manages to create a few haunting images once the camera exits the hermetically sealed limo. Cronenberg the writer, however, cannot create a coherent narrative. Sure, money can corrupt, dehumanize and desensitize you. Just like an overbearing bundle of speeches can bore you senseless.